


To Be An Anchor in the Storm

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Series, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Confrontation at the loft -- Jim's POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be An Anchor in the Storm

## To Be An Anchor in the Storm

by Daydreamer

Author's website:  <http://www.geocities.com/daydreamersden>

Characters not mine -- story is.

Number 31 in the Leaving series.

Contains references to child abuse -- physical and sexual.

This story is a sequel to: Safe Harbor 

* * *

My cell phone rings and I jump, startled by the noise. I've been concentrating on listening to Blair in the shower and my hearing is up, so the phone's jangle is inordinately loud. I clap my hands over my ears and scramble to find my mental dial, lowering the volume to something that would pass for normal and allow my eardrums not to explode. I grab the offending instrument and growl, "Ellison." 

"Hello to you, too," Simon says dryly, drawing a chuckle from me. 

"Sorry," I apologize. "The phone was -- loud." 

"Ah," my boss responds. "You must have been listening to something." 

"Someone," I offer, leaning against the kitchen island and contemplating the rapidly gathering clouds. 

"Why was your phone off earlier?" Simon asks. 

I shudder as I think of my meltdown of the morning. Can I tell Simon about it? Should I? Intuitively, I know he would understand but I'm embarrassed, and my mind skips away from it, refusing to admit or acknowledge my public display of emotion. I hadn't even realized Blair had turned the phone off until I came downstairs to check for messages after our nap. Instead, I just grunt, "Had to workout." 

I can almost see Simon's eyebrow crawl into his forehead. "Oh, really?" he drawls. "Workout? Is that what you're calling it now? Going to the 'Jim?'" 

"Yes, the gym -- fitness center at the U," I respond testily. I mean, I did go to the gym for crissakes. I even worked out. Before... 

Simon drops the teasing at my tone and demands, "Is the kid all right?" 

"Yeah," I sigh then I suck it up and tell him what really happened. I end with, "We took a nap. He's in the shower now, but I think he's good. Strong. Ready." 

"And you?" my friend inquires solicitously. "Are you ready?" 

I shrug, then try to put the movement into words. "I don't know." I pause, shift the phone to my other ear then go on. "But, it's not about me. I had my turn this morning. This is about Blair and -- he's ready." 

"Does he know she's coming?" 

"No," I answer truthfully. "I didn't want to say anything until I was sure." In the bathroom, I hear the shower go off. "I'll tell him before you get here. 

"I'm on my way to get her now," he tells me, preamble over. The phone goes quiet in my ear and I close it, put it back in the charger. 

I swallow, cast a glance at the still-closed bathroom door and repress a shudder. I'm really beginning to wonder if I've made a big mistake. Is he ready to see her again so soon? Can she be what he needs? 

He comes out of the bathroom smiling, but the smile quickly fades when he sees my face. "What is it, man? A case?" 

I shake my head. How like him to figure it would be a case to get me wound up. 

"I, uh, did something." 

His chin drops and he looks at me, sorta like looking over invisible glasses. "You did something?" he echoes. 

I nod, suddenly miserable. It's a mistake, my mind is screaming at me, but the damn soldier in me is chanting, 'Follow the plan, follow the plan,' and I blurt out, "Naomi is coming back." 

He pales visibly, but other than that doesn't react. "Oh," he says. 

"I can stop her. I can call Simon, tell him not to bring her. Damn, I'm sorry, Blair. I shouldn't have done this, should have talked to you first. I screwed up." I'm babbling, but I seem to have lost control of my tongue. "Here," I say, reaching out for the phone, "let me call Simon." 

His hand grasps mine, halting me, and our eyes meet. "No," he says softly, "it's okay." He draws a deep breath. "Maybe I need this." He pats my hand then heads upstairs to get dressed. 

He comes down dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and I try to decide if the lack of layers is a good thing or not. The sky is heavily overcast by now, but he's oblivious. He goes out on the balcony. Sits. Doesn't move. 

And behind him, in the kitchen, I'm pacing. 

The air is electric, the sky pregnant with storm. The loft echoes the outside. 

My pacing moves into an almost panicked rhythm and I begin to scrub the counters that I'd just done so thoroughly this morning. Naomi is coming. I can hear Simon's car, hear their muted, oh, so polite conversation. I glance at my partner, my love and see the wind whip his hair across his face. He brushes it back as I head out to pass him a hair tie. I'll tell him it was a mistake. I'll convince him I was wrong. He doesn't have to do this -- doesn't have to see her again now. We can wait. He can heal. There's time. 

But then I smell the cigar. Simon. And a sickly floral perfume -- sickly to me at least. And sage. Oh, God -- not sage. I sneeze and Blair's heart speeds up. I'm torn -- should I go to him? But instead, I veer back through the living room and open the door. Simon has his hand up, ready to knock. 

"I hate it when you do that," he complains. 

"Simon..." I say, my voice cracking, and he nods. Moves into the living room. Plants himself at the table. Waits. Here for the duration. I quirk a smile in his direction -- he's a good friend, Simon. 

I look at Naomi. She's huddled into herself by the door -- afraid. Good. I scent the air and know that her fear is real this time. I stalk around the room, end up back in front of her. "Get it right," I growl. "Tell him it wasn't his fault." 

She nods, a jerky, bird-like motion that doesn't reassure me. "Tell him he didn't do anything wrong." My voice is hard as I give her the last instruction. "Lie to him -- tell him you didn't know." 

Her eyes pop wide at that, then she flushes and looks away. I reach out, gripping her shoulder tightly, knowing I'll leave bruises and not caring. "Convince him, Naomi. Convince him you would never have left him alone like that if you'd really known what was going on." 

She trembles beneath my fingers and I force myself to let her go. She's smart enough not to reach up and rub the part that hurts. 

"Get yourself together and go to him," I order, my voice rough with emotion. 

She studies me for a moment longer, the fearscent still heavy in the air, but then, she breathes in, breathes out, and just like that -- it's gone. She smiles, pats my cheek gently and glides toward the balcony. 

I follow, but linger in the kitchen. I want to be out there, to be with him, but she has to do this. She _has_ to do this. My eyes track her as she brushes a leaf out of the chair and sits. 

Blair is breathing, an even in and out, and I can almost hear him chanting in my head. 

But then she speaks and I tense, ready to pounce if she says one wrong word. 

"Remember when we used to talk?" 

Her words are quiet and Blair breathes again -- in and out, in and out -- and I can see him trying to remain calm, remain in the moment. She reaches out and runs her fingers through the gently curling strands at the nape of his neck. I love those curls -- the way they wind around my fingers whenever my hand rests on the back of his neck, how they always smell like cucumber-mint because he insists on using that expensive shampoo that I adore. And I especially love the way a fugitive ringlet always manages to flop into his eyes whenever we make love. I suppress a growl and fight the impulse to yank her away from him, to keep her from ever touching, ever _hurting_ him again. I will not throw her off the balcony. I will not. 

I sniff. I smell salt in the air and I know he's crying. I turn -- maybe I will throw her off the balcony after all. It's only three stories down, I think. She'd survive -- probably. 

But before I can move, he speaks, his words coarse and bitter. "Remember when your words mattered to me? When _you_ mattered?" 

She touches him again, on the arm this time, and I look down, forcing myself to scrub at the counter. I glance at Simon. He's giving me a run for my money on the grinding of the teeth thing. His hands are balled fists, pressing into my table so hard I'm surprised the wood hasn't splintered. 

"They matter," Naomi says in her arrogant, I'm-so-important way. 

Blair makes a strangled sound -- a laugh or a cry -- I'm not sure which. 

"I'm important to you, Blair," she says. " _I_ matter." 

Scrub, scrub, scrub. Three stories down. Only three stories down. I could just -- drop -- her, not throw her. She'd survive. 

Blair sighs, the exhaustion clear in his voice. "You'll always mean something to me, Naomi." He shakes off her hand and looks back at me, but me, coward that I am, I duck my head again and avoid his eyes. He sighs again. "But," pause, "I'm not the one who screwed up." 

I cheer silently for him -- you go, buddy! Tell her! 

"You know, up until a few months ago, I was actually naive enough to believe that you loved me as much as I love you. How stupid of me to think that nothing would ever touch us." 

His voice is steady, but I can hear the desperation beneath the steady tones. I hear the teenager, the boy, the _baby_ who just wanted his mother to love him. 

Silence reigns but for the sound of two sets of jaws grinding together. Gonna have to talk to Simon about picking up my bad habits. His fists clench and unclench and I scrub. I scrub and scrub and scrub as if the motion could clean things up -- make things right. 

The silence stretches then he shifts in his seat, turns to her. I hear thunder rumbling in the distance, smell the electricity in the air. The storm will be here soon. 

The storm _is_ here. 

Naomi's eyes dart to me, she draws in air then breathes, "Nothing touched you, honey. You were perfect." 

Blair's heart rate spikes, then levels almost instantly. I tense, balance on the balls of my feet and grip the counter to keep from moving. 

His voice is small, a lost little boy's, when he repeats, "Nothing touched me?" 

Her hand is on his knee and, all I can think of is -- don't touch him. Don't you dare touch him! Get your hands off him -- you have no right, no right at all! My eyes narrow and I'm growling subvocally. Or maybe not so subvocally, since Simon is suddenly staring at me. I shake my head, stare at the two of them. Say it, Naomi, say it now. Fast. I growl again. 

She's pouting -- pouting! -- as she says, "Please, Blair -- we have to try and get through this. I know that I messed up, honey, but you have to believe me when I tell you -- I didn't know..." 

I breathe. She did it. She said it. She performed just like she was supposed to, right on cue. But then... the storm breaks. Raindrops fall, exploding like bombs across the patio. 

"Didn't know?" His words burn, sizzle hot across my skin. "Didn't know? Oh, God." He's moving, away from her, away, and I'm scrambling on legs that have suddenly turned to wood. Forcing them to move, I lunge, trip, fall the six feet to the door, then wait, scalded by the disgust in his voice. I resist the urge to bite my fist. This isn't the way it was supposed to go. 

I smell bile, and I know his stomach is trying to relieve itself of its contents. Oh, God! This wasn't supposed to happen like this. She was going to smile, coo at him. He'd kick at her a little, she'd simper, pull a few tears, say how _sorry_ she was, how she didn't _know,_ and he'd understand. He'd understand because he's Blair Sandburg and he _always_ understands. And this is his mother -- and now he wants to throw up and he's running from her, backing into the wall, the window and finally me. I haven't made things better -- I've made them _worse!_ The thought sickens me and I fight my own gag reflex. I throw my arms around him, feel him sway. "Breathe," I whisper, breathing with him when he does as I command. 

He breathes again, shudders, and drops his hand from his mouth. 

"I can't do this! I can't look at you and know what you did, Naomi." His eyes slam shut, his face pinched as he clutches at my arms. "It sickens me, don't you get it?" I see, hear, _feel_ his last attempt at remaining stolid, but he fails. His voice breaks up, wavers. His breathing falters. "I've been... doing a lot of thinking since you -- since..." His hand flails in the air and I fight the need to capture it, to kiss each digit as if that could heal the wounds of his spirit. "I've... I've decided I don't want to see you again." His voice quavers at the end, but the finality of it is clear. 

"Blair!" she exclaims, appalled. 

Blair is studying her. I'm studying her and I begin to wonder if the look on her face might just be genuine this time. Maybe she didn't understand how badly he was hurt. Maybe it's really sunk in this time. Maybe, just maybe, she's going to do the right thing this time -- without prompting. 

I can see Blair assessing her, coming to the same conclusions I did, I wonder? But then I feel him stiffen, lighting flashes in the sky and a bolt of fury flashes through him. He contains it and speaks to her. "I appreciate the fact that you came all the way back here to talk to me, but the truth is, a short delay on your way to somewhere else and a quick apology aren't enough to wipe away what you did!" 

He's trembling. The rain is pouring now, the storm in full force, and I pull him back further into the kitchen. He's trembling; I'm trembling. The flood of emotion, the gale force of it slams into me and I tremble. Hurricane Naomi follows us, one hand lifting to see how much damage the rain did to her hair. I gag again. 

Blair shakes, the emotions raging through him. Fear? Pain? Anger? Anger it is as he begins to speak. He bites off the words. "This is my safe harbor, Naomi. You aren't -- safe -- for me. You didn't keep me safe when I was a child and now, well, now, my emotions, my _feelings_ aren't safe around you." 

He clutches at my arm, his fingernails biting into my skin and I welcome the pain. 

"I want to be away from you for awhile, not to be confronted by you and your trite attempts at remorse! You almost destroyed me." 

I pull him to me -- closer, tighter -- wanting to wrap myself around him and absorb him into me. Anything to take him away from this -- from her. 

"Anything we had as mother and child, you've ruined it with your selfishness," he rants, and I silently applaud. "Everything we had -- everything that I thought was worth something! You took my life and ripped it to shreds because of your own lack of integrity and that's not something I can live with." 

He shaking so hard now, I don't think he could stand if I wasn't holding him up. 

His voice falls, ringing with an empty hollowness, as if she had taken everything from him. 

"I won't have a relationship with someone who has so little respect for me." 

Naomi's eyes dart wildly from her son to me. There's murder in mine, and I think she sees it, for she looks pleadingly at Simon, then turns back to Blair. Her eyes seem different now, the look not so practiced, the emotion almost genuine. She seems to be imploring Blair to reconsider, begging wordlessly, and I dare to think, to hope, that maybe, this time... But then she looks at me and I see the fear, the bright flash of hatred -- hatred that I've made her do this. She opens her mouth and Blair sags at her words. 

"Honey, I can understand you needing space -- but not to see me again? Do we have to be that -- final?" 

She's fluttering now, arms rising and falling, tiny little steps back and forth. I focus on Blair -- he's swaying in my arms. 

"You're so important to me, Blair. I tell people all the time, how important you are to me." 

I suppress a snort, hold my partner on his feet. He's buying it -- he _needs_ to buy it. 

"I -- I need you." 

I look up. Her eyes are shiny with unshed tears and I can feel the walls Blair's built crumbling. I feel his four-year-old self peeking out, daring to believe. I hold the seven-year-old, caress the bruised cheek as he stares at her, mouth hanging open. I gather the eight-year-old close to me, swearing the no will ever touch him again, never without his permission. She won't hurt you, she won't. I'm chanting in my head. It's all right, you can come out. She's sorry. She loves you. She didn't mean it. It's safe, baby, I'm here. It's all right. He stares at her like she is everything he ever wanted, everything he ever needed. He opens his mouth and I'm silently urging him on. It's okay this time, baby. It's okay. 

And then she says it. 

"How could you do this to me?" 

And he -- he dies. His heart stutters; his throat grows tight. I'm pole-axed. She's done it again. My gut aches -- it actually _aches_ as if I've been punched over and over again. But, Blair -- he's fading, weak, swaying and I begin to murmur over and over again, "Breathe, baby, breathe." 

She's pouting, waiting for him to run to her, to comfort _her._ " 

I'm waiting for him to collapse. 

He surprises us both. 

He pulls away from me, drawing himself up until he seems to tower over his mother. "Don't do this to you?" The words drip venomously from his lip, but the snot that follows them betrays his heart. "How the hell can you be so incredibly self-absorbed? I didn't abandon you, Mom! I didn't leave you alone to be fucked when you were a child. I didn't look the other way when you were being beaten! And I sure as hell didn't ask you to pretend it never happened!" 

I did this -- God forgive me, I did this. I brought this filth into our home and set her on him. What the hell was I thinking? He's going to implode. 

He sniffs, wipes his face with his sleeve leaving a shiny mucus trail. I hug him, hand him a tissue. He looks at it for a moment, presses it to his lips and I know he's thinking of kisses -- paper kisses. He laughs a short, bitten-off, vaguely maniacal laugh and I pull him back to my chest, wrapping him in my arms. Wrapping him in _me._

I did this and I don't know what to say or do to make it right. I look down, see his nose still running. "Blow," I say, trying for practical when all else fails. He blows, drops the tissue and begins to cry. 

Thunder crashes and the building shakes. It was close that time. 

"Who was it, Naomi? Who?" Blair suddenly demands. 

"What?" His words surprise her. She takes a little half-step backward, then tilts and grabs the counter for balance. "What are you talking about?" 

"Who was it that you had to leave me for?" 

Blair pushes away from me again. I don't know what to do. Should I hold him? Pull him back? Let him go? Cheer him on? I don't have a script for this -- it's not going down the way it was supposed to! 

"Was it a man?" His voice rises, edging into hysteria. "Who, Naomi? Was he tall? Was he rich? Was he..." I'm sobbing so hard that it hurts to breathe. "Was he worth it?" 

She stares at him, her mouth opening and closing and I see her hand twitch as if she'd like to slap him. I step forward, reach out. I can't stop this now -- it's too late and the damage it done, but hell will freeze over before she'll hit him. Her hand fists, then opens, still twitching. My eyes narrow and I see Simon is on his feet as well. Three stories down. Maybe she wouldn't survive after all. 

Lightning shatters the dark sky, thunder crashes around us. 

Blair shrieks, leaping beyond my grasp. "I was nothing to you!" 

I surge forward, hands grasping and clutch him to my chest. My arms are around him, holding him, providing -- what? Safety? <snort> Comfort? <snort> I blew both of those when I let this bitch walk into the loft. I bend down, press my lips to his ear and murmur, "You're mine, you're safe, you're mine. I love you." 

But he shakes me off and I let him -- because I don't want to risk hurting him. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He darts across the kitchen, yanks a knife from the wooden block and presses it into his gut. 

Oh, God! I don't know what to do. 

"I didn't matter, Jim," he mutters, voice shaking, puzzled, confused. "She's my mother and I didn't matter." 

Blood wells up, staining his shirt and I am mesmerized by the dark red against the blue shirt. Zoning on the rich, coppery odor. Blood. Blair's blood. 

"Even now, I don't matter." He pushes and more blood spills. 

The world begins to buzz; the odor is overwhelming. I smell it -- it's all I can smell. Blair's blood. Thick in the air, on my tongue. Saliva fills my mouth and I can taste the blood. 

"I'm nothing!" He screams the words but they seem to come from far away. I'm getting lost in the blood. But then, something hits me in the head and I shake myself, look around and see Simon staring at me, staring at Blair, poised to move, but undecided. 

I look at Blair, see the blood but push the sight away. "You matter," I say, choking on the words. My voice breaks and I cry, "You matter to me!" Tears streak my face. Blair. Knife. Blood. Simon is waiting, giving me precious seconds, but he's going to move, going to have to if I don't get the damned knife. "And you are something. You are!" The words are flung from my mouth, frantic, desperate words. True words, but so tinged with pain and fear and desperation that I'm not sure he believes me. I don't know if I'm getting through. "You're the sole reason for my existence on this piece of shit planet!" There's a scream in my throat, threatening to break free. If he doesn't put down the knife. The knife, Blair. Give me the knife. "Damn it, Blair, please..." 

Blair pushes again, pulls the blade to the left and I see the blood spray. He's fascinated, watching it stain his shirt, drip onto the floor. He stares at Naomi, seems trapped by her like a fly caught in a spider's web. 

The warm, sweet, sickly scent of blood pours over me. 

"Give me the knife, Blair," I beg. "Don't do this." 

Something in my voice got through to him, and he breaks eye contact with his mother, turning to stare at me. My arms are out, pleading, but I'm scared to move, scared of what he might do if I make the wrong move. 

Is he going to actually gut himself? Kill himself in front of me? In our home? 

I don't know what to do... 

"I'm sorry... I'm a fuck-up," I babble. "I shouldn't have done this, shouldn't have made her come. Blair, baby, give me the knife." I'm begging, pleading, ready to drop to my knees, anything. Whatever it takes to get that piece of steel out of my lover's belly. Anything to make the blood stop -- to stop the pain. "I'm too selfish, too greedy to give you up! Please, baby, please -- I love you." I choke, terror freezing me. "I need you..." 

He nods and I move, taking the knife, holding him up. Naomi looks sick, sick with fear, but for Blair, or for herself? I can't spare any time for her now. I need to see what Blair, my buddy, my guide, my partner, my love -- my _life_ \-- I need to see what he's done to himself. I pass the knife to Simon, pass Blair to Simon's strong arms, and kneel to look at the damage. 

"It's not too deep," I sigh in relief. 

"Do we need 911?" Simon asks. 

"No," I answer, "I can bandage it myself. Get a towel from the bathroom, will you?" I rise, and look at him, this man I love. His eyes are closed. Relief? Exhaustion? Unconsciousness? Oh, Blair, what's the damage? Will we ever really know? 

Naomi skitters past, just on the fringe of my vision and I hear Simon bark, "Don't move." 

Blair jumps at Simon's command to his mother, then seems to let go. He breaks down completely, sobbing, and I'm immediately worried about the stress this is going to put on the cut on his belly. I pull him to the couch, pull him into my lap as he cries. Simon is back with the towel, kneeling before us then lifting Blair's shirt to apply pressure. 

Naomi has followed Simon's order and is frozen in one spot. Her head is tilted to the side as she watches the three of us and for a second, just a brief, flitting second, I think I see sadness cross her face. Sadness and longing and maybe a touch of wistfulness for something she'll never have. I shake my head. I can't be concerned with her anymore. I won't be. I wear the price of that concern on my hands -- her son's blood. He survived without her before -- he can damn well do it now. He's got so much more now, more than he ever had before. Friends and colleagues at the University. His students, his work. Friends and colleagues at the Station. _Our_ work. Recognition in his field. He's published, he's admired, he's respected. He has a home, roots, security. 

And he has me. 

The hell with this self-absorbed bitch. I don't know what made her the way she is, and I don't care. I just want her poison out of our home. 

Blair's tears have stopped and he's pulling away from me, pushing himself to his feet. Simon growls and he takes the towel, holding it to Blair's belly. Blair reaches out with his other hand, touches Naomi, his fingers encircling her slender wrist. Her eyes are squeezed shut and despite my vow of, oh, all of fifteen seconds ago, that I didn't care about her, only wanted her gone, I wonder what she sees when she closes her eyes. 

Does she see the infant, neglected, dirty, hungry, alone? 

Does she see the toddler, terrified and confused, hiding under the bed? 

Does she see the bright young boy? Can she see the light in him that she's slowly letting be extinguished with unkind words and painful blows? 

Does she see the shell of that child, all that's left after months of rape and abuse? Did she ever wonder where the light went? 

Did she ever wonder at the miracle of how the light was preserved? 

Her eyes snap open and she stares at him, her face truly full of pain and regret. "Blair," she whispers. Only that. "Blair." 

He breathes, winces at the pull on his wound, then says. "Okay." He paces two steps, then stops. "I need some time away from you, but then, later, we can talk." 

She smiles, takes his hand and kisses it. 

"Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you." 

He pulls away from her, drops the towel and winces again. I'm on my knees in a split second, holding the towel to wound, trying to put back everything he's lost and keep him from losing anything more. 

"Don't thank me yet," he says, his voice cold and hard. "I haven't done anything but stalled what might be inevitable." 

She nods as if she understands, then her eyes dart to Simon and there is pure triumph in them. I don't need the words spoken to hear them. 'See? I told you I could do it.' I shake my head in disgust. She doesn't have a clue what she's done. 

"When?" she dares to ask. "When can we talk?" 

"I don't know." Blair looks down at me and I rise, gently pulling him back to the couch. "I don't know anything right now except that I want you to leave." 

"Right." Her voice is cheery, as if she's checked off one more item on her to-do list. 

Pack for Alaska<br>  
Order a cab<br>  
Eat a healthy breakfast<br>  
Emotionally destroy son <br>  
Watch son try to disembowel himself<br> Catch the plane<br>

It's all the same to her. 

I shut her from my thoughts, refuse to waste another second on her. Blair is shaking again and I'm holding him, murmuring wordlessly against his neck. His hand comes over mine, helping to hold the towel, helping to hold it all in. 

A cough makes me look up. Simon stands beside Naomi at the door. 

"You two be okay?" he asks gruffly, and I nod. Thanks, I send silently, and he shrugs as if to say it was no big deal. 

"Good-bye, Blair," Naomi says, and he nods, waving at her. Waving her out. Waving her away. 

And away she would stay. Simon would see to that. It was comforting to know my boss -- my friend -- knew me well enough -- knew _us_ well enough -- that he would make sure she knew to stay away until we wanted her. _If_ we ever did. 

The door shuts and as far as I am concerned it's shut for good for Naomi. 

Blair trembles, clinging to me. "I love you," I say. I don't know what else to say, so I say it again, "I love you." 

He calms slowly, stilling in my arms and I want to get him doctored before I put him to bed. "C'mon, Chief," I say, smiling when he looks up at me. "Let me put something on that cut besides a towel then we'll head to bed." 

He nods and follows me to the bathroom standing in front of me when I sit on the closed toilet. I place several layers of gauze over the wound and suppress a shudder at the thought of what could -- what might ... I shake myself mentally. Tomorrow. We'll deal with this tomorrow because now, well, now we have now. I finish with the adhesive tape, then say, "Bed." 

He nods again, turns, but I reach out and stop him with a touch. "I'm sorry, Blair," I whisper. 

He turns back to me, cups my face in both hands and leans down until his forehead rests again mine. "Jim," he breathes softly. "It's you. It's been you for a long time." 

I pull him down and he lands heavily, awkwardly, in my lap. A grown man in my lap as I sit on a closed toilet in the bathroom. How's that for weird? 

"Do you know when it started?" he murmurs. "When it all began?" 

"The abuse?" I shudder. 

"No, the memories." 

"Oh." I start guiltily. "When I found your box..." 

He shakes his head. "Naw, not then. Before. Do you remember the day I lent you my car?" 

I nod. 

"And you were late picking me up?" 

I sorta nod, not really sure I remember at all. 

He laughs, and the sound makes me smile and shrug apologetically. "Sorry, Chief, I'm not sure I remember." 

He pats my arm, telling me without words it's okay. "I had a sort of -- panic attack, I guess you'd call it -- that day. I sorta flashed back on all the times that Naomi was late and," his voice breaks but he picks up the thread of his thought and carries on, "all the times she didn't come." 

Oh, God! I bury my head in his shoulder. "Oh, God, oh, God..." I'm not sure if the words are in my head or I'm saying them out loud, but Blair, he's just patting me, murmuring, "Shhhh, it's okay." 

"I was remembering all the times," he goes on, his hand still rubbing my arm, my face still glued to his chest. "And then I was thinking about how you were never like that. How you'd never leave me -- never forget me." 

"Never," I vow, "never!" 

He pats me again and I risk a look up only to see the patented Sandburg serenity smiling down at me. "I knew that, Jim," he says, "I _knew._ " He kisses me, a gentle brush of lip against lip, then adds, "And that was when I knew I was going to be all right." 

I lift my head from his shoulder and he stands then pulls me up and cuddles into my arms. I realize then that I wanted her to be what he needs, because that was what I thought he needed. But, I look down at the dark head resting against my chest and now I know -- he may have wanted her to be the mother she never was, I may have wanted her to be the mother she should have been -- but those are just wants. 

Me? I'm what he needs. 

* * *

End To Be An Anchor in the Storm by Daydreamer: daydream59@aol.com

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